The Middle of Nowhere Page 4

  Heavy footsteps returned. Malek looked up.

  “I’ll stay as long as it rains, though, if you don’t mind,” Khorr said.

  “Certainly! Certainly!” They made room in the dry spot for their hulking companion. Khorr drew dry straw up around his bare legs.

  “It’s cold here,” the minotaur said. “Not like Kothas. There the sun shines hot and strong.”

  “You really do want to go home, don’t you?” Caeta said gently.

  The minotaur shook his heavy head. “A poet must experience life. Travail is the seasoning of good verse.”

  “If that’s so, I’m a bard,” Nils grunted.

  Though Khorr did not say any more, Malek knew they’d found their first champion.

  The rain continued the next day. After another scant meal of barley cakes and pickled eggs, the farmers prepared to scour Robann again. They convinced Khorr to remain behind in the stable. If Durand’s friends or the irate gamblers were still after him, it would be safer for their first recruit to stay out of sight.

  The powerful bull-man was not unhappy with his confinement. “It will give me time to compose,” he said.

  Pulling rough woolen hoods over their heads, the four villagers slipped out into the rain. To cover more ground, they decided to split into pairs: Nils and Malek would try the inns and taverns in the part of town controlled by the Red Scarf gang, while Caeta and Wilf would try their luck south of the high street, in Black Hammer territory. Robann had a surfeit of idle warriors lingering over cups, grousing about their lack of employment. They were humans mostly, with a leavening of dwarves, and a few woodland elves. Malek and Nils were a bit afraid of dwarves. Rakell’s band was mixed up with dwarves in the mining venture, and since Malek’s encounter with Gorfon Tattermaul, they couldn’t be sure who a dwarf might be working for—or related to. Dwarves were very clannish and would not readily take up arms against their fellows.

  Elves, on the other hand, were intimidating. With their taciturn ways and obvious contempt for humans, they seemed too lofty for the humble farmers to approach.

  It was a bad morning all around for the brothers. Those fighters Malek and Nils did speak to listened until the terms of the deal were broached.

  “Work for a handful of grain? What am I, a plow horse?” one mustached warrior barked with a laugh. At one hostel the soldiers were so insulted by the farmers’ offer they threw Malek and Nils out in the street.

  Furious, Malek picked himself up, palming mud from his face. “If I had a sword—!”

  “If you had a sword, they’d take it from you and stick it where no sword should ever go,” Nils said severely. “Come away!”

  Steady rain washed much of the mud off the pair by the time they reached an inn called the Rusty Shield. An ancient knightly shield hung above the door, the emblem of the establishment. As the name promised, it was very rusty.

  Like the Thirsty Beggar the day before, it was not a popular place. Only six customers were in the common room, each alone, each hunched over a cup. A fire crackled on the hearth, which a slender young girl was stoking when they entered. The aroma of cedar filled the gloomy room.

  Malek immediately spotted the tall black woman they’d seen yesterday. She was at the far end of the room, her back against the timber wall. She had one leg propped up on a bench, the other coiled underneath. A moment of recognition flashed across her face when she saw the farmers.

  “That’s her again,” Malek whispered. “Let’s ask her.”

  “All right, but watch what you say!”

  They walked right up to Raika, stopping a respectful three steps away.

  “What do you want?” she said slowly.

  “We saw you in the Thirsty Beggar yesterday,” Malek began.

  “So what?”

  The brothers exchanged glances. “That was quite a feat, driving a knife through a coin like that,” said Nils.

  “That was my last florin.” She picked up her cup and tilted her head far back, draining the very last drops of beer. “I should’ve stuck the knife in the barkeep’s skull.”

  “May we sit down?” asked Malek.

  “What for?”

  “We’d like to talk to you.”

  She held up her dry clay cup. “Words are dry. Are you buying?”

  They had almost no money left, but Malek was determined. “Yes,” he said and put a worn silver coin on the table.

  Raika shouted for service, and the teen-age girl hurried over with a pitcher of beer.

  “Leave it,” Raika said.

  The girl eyed them suspiciously then snatched the silver from the table.

  Nils swallowed. That was their last piece of hard money.

  She emptied one cup and filled it again. “So talk,” she said.

  Malek said, “We come from a small village east of here. We’re in great peril there. Bandits have carried off twenty of our people, and in twenty days’ time they will return for twenty more!”

  “Carried off? For what?”

  “To work in a mine,” Nils said.

  “Mine, eh?” For a moment there was no sound but the crackle of the fire and drip-drip of the farmers’ sodden cloaks on the brick floor.

  “What kind of mine?” asked Raika.

  “Uh, iron.” Malek wondered what difference that made. “We’re looking for warriors, fighters, to help us get our people back and defeat the bandits.”

  “I’m a sailor, not a warrior.”

  “You’re a long way from the sea,” Nils countered, not unkindly. “You’re obviously capable, and I think you’ve held a sword before.”

  She smiled into her cup. “A time or two.”

  “Will you help us?” asked Malek earnestly.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Here was the crucial point. Malek looked away and let his brother do the explaining.

  “We’re poor folk,” Nils said. “We have no gold or steel. All we can do is keep your belly full and head dry for as long as you remain with us. But—but—it is a good fight.”

  The woman set her cup down and licked her lips. Malek tensed.

  Raika threw back her head and guffawed. She clapped Nils on the shoulder and kept laughing.

  “What a pair you are!” she exclaimed. Around the quiet inn, the other guests lifted their heads at the noise. “Sell you my life for three squares and a straw bed? For a good fight? Well, why not?”

  Nils blinked. “You’ll help us?”

  “Sure. There’s nothing in my purse but air and nothing in my belly but the beer I’ve had this morning!” She suddenly sobered. “How many brigands are there?”

  “Thirty-eight horsemen, and …”

  Malek finished for his brother. “Ten ogres.”

  She stared at him. “That’s a lot of brawn to run an iron mine. Hmm.” Raika grimaced, showing many white teeth. “I don’t suppose you care if I pick up a little booty along the way?” she said. “Taken from your enemies, I mean.”

  If that was her only condition, the brothers were only too glad to agree. After giving her directions to the stable, Malek and Nils rose to leave.

  “One of your future comrades is already there. A minotaur,” said Malek. “Just so you know.”

  “I sailed the Blood Sea. I know minotaurs,” she replied. “They fight well.”

  They shook hands with the Saifhumi woman and left the Rusty Shield in great excitement.

  Alone again, Raika forsook her cup and hoisted the pitcher instead. Silly peasants, she mused as the brown brew slid down. Did they take her for a fool? Threadbare farmers recruiting mercenaries? Bandits operating an iron mine? What nonsense! Still, there had to be something of great value at stake. The farmers’ accents and primitive garments bespoke some remote locale. If there was wealth to be had, be it gold, steel, jewels, or whatever, it shouldn’t be too hard to wrest a portion for herself.

  Her laughter rang out again. This time her inert fellow patrons paid her no mind, and the serving girl peeked shyly over the kitchen
half-door, curious to know what made the surly stranger suddenly so merry.

  The high street marked the limit of Black Hammer territory. More mercantile-oriented than their neighbors, the best markets were sited in their part of Robann. Fair weather or foul, the Black Hammers expected their markets to operate. Though the rain beat down all morning, the merchants unrolled their awnings and set out their wares as they did every day.

  Caeta and Wilf wandered among the stalls, stomachs growling at the display of foodstuffs. Summer harvest had come in here, and tables groaned under heaps of carrots, cabbages, and dirt-caked potatoes. The aisle of butchers was even more heartbreaking as the hungry farmers walked past links of savory sausage, salt beef, smoky hams, and fresh hare. At one point Wilf staggered and sat down in the mud. Caeta dragged him to his feet.

  “We must go elsewhere,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll find any warriors here.”

  “Warriors?” boomed a voice. Caeta turned to see an aproned butcher standing under a dripping tarp. “We have everything at the Black Hammer market,” he said, chuckling. “Even warriors!”

  He waved them under his open tent. Puzzled but curious, Wilf and Caeta followed.

  The butcher led them back between crates and casks to an area screened by canvas and poles. There, working on a rough table made of logs, a squat, well-muscled man with a gleaming shaved head was cutting up a cow carcass with a massive cleaver. Spattered with gore, he looked like a blood-wraith, and Wilf trembled at the sight of him. There was something vaguely inhuman about the man’s features.…

  “There’s your warrior!” said the butcher, laughing.

  “Ain’t that right, Hume?”

  Thunk! The muscular man buried his cleaver in the table. Caeta and Wilf flinched at the sound.

  “Yes, I am a warrior,” Hume said with pride. “Misfortune has brought me to this state. Why do you mock me, Bergom?”

  The butcher sneered. “Such a high and mighty fellow! You were starving until I gave you a job! I just thought I’d show these rubes how real life treats a ‘real’ warrior!” He chuckled deep in his barrel chest.

  “Are you a trained fighter, sir?” asked Caeta.

  Hume bowed stiffly. “Good lady, I am Hume nar Fanac, by birth thane to the mighty Khan of Khur.”

  “There is no Khan of Khur!” said Bergom the butcher.

  “The throne survives, but my lord did not. So long as he lived, I was his vassal.”

  Caeta gripped Wilf’s hand. “Master Hume, how would you like to be a warrior again instead of a butcher’s apprentice?”

  “In whose service, lady?”

  “Ours.”

  “Haw, haw, haw!” Bergom slapped his pot belly, grinning from ear to ear. “This is a better joke than I thought it would be!”

  Caeta stepped forward and took Hume’s blood-smeared hand. “I tell you truly, sir. I and my companions have come looking for champions to defend our homes against a robber knight and his minions. We have little to offer, but our cause is just.”

  Hume listened and looked from the rain-soaked, somber peasants to his rude and sarcastic employer. Untying his apron, he handed it to Bergom.

  “What? What do you think you’re doing?” spluttered the butcher.

  “Choosing the path of a warrior,” said Hume. “Lady, I am at your service.”

  Caeta and Wilf were astounded, and the young man said, “You haven’t asked for our terms!”

  Hume washed his hands and face quickly from a barrel brimming with rainwater. “You say your cause is honorable?”

  “It is,” vowed Caeta.

  “Then speak no more of terms. I am your man.”

  Bergom muttered dire things as Hume donned a faded leather cape and buckled on a short, wide sword.

  “The Black Hammers will hear of this desertion!” the butcher growled. “Where am I gonna get another cutter on such short notice?”

  “The Black Hammers understand duty,” Hume replied. “What they won’t understand is how much you short them on the weight of the beef you sell them. If they want to speak to me, let them find me, and I will tell.”

  Bergom paled. Further protests died in his throat.

  Hume plopped a flat, wide-brimmed hat on his slick pate and tied it on. “Lead on, lady,” he said. Dazed by their good fortune, Wilf and Caeta walked their new catch back to the stable.

  It was a strange ensemble that gathered beneath the leaking stable roof that evening. Rations were short, but the farmers readily gave up their small portions to their newly hired fighters.

  Warriors are by nature suspicious of strangers, especially other fighters of unknown caliber or loyalty. Facing the four villagers from Nowhere, Khorr, Raika, and Hume ate in silence, scarcely acknowledging each other.

  “A question,” said Hume at last.

  “What is it?” Caeta replied.

  “Who will command us? We cannot fight alone, each with his”—he nodded to the lanky Raika, “—or her own tactics and style. Someone must command.”

  “Why not you? You’re an experienced warrior,” said Nils.

  Hume rubbed his smooth scalp. “Your confidence in me is kind, but misplaced. I was but a lesser thane in Khur, one of a picked band of eight who guarded the north gate of the citadel. I’ve never led others into battle. I am a good follower, not a commander.”

  “You captained a ship, didn’t you?” Malek asked Raika.

  She shook her head. “I was second mate, and I’m not a soldier, I told you. I can fight, but don’t ask me to lead this crazy company.”

  Khorr said, “We must find a captain. There must be many at loose ends in Robann.”

  “That’ll be tricky,” countered Raika. “Battle commanders will expect more than barley cakes in payment.”

  Wilf looked up. Stars glittered through rents in the roof.

  “Rain’s ended,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll find a leader.”

  “And more fighters!” Raika said sharply. “No offense to Hume or the bull-man, but three of us won’t accomplish much against forty.”

  “I will fight with you,” Malek announced.

  “All the able-bodied folk of the village will fight,” Caeta added. “There’s at least thirty of us. How many experienced warriors will we need, do you think, to make up the difference?”

  Hume drew a thick finger through the straw, calculating. “Ten, I would say. Eight at least.”

  “Seven’s a lucky number,” said Wilf, curled up and nearly asleep.

  “Seven against fifty. Ha!” Raika started to think she’d made a bad bargain, treasure or no treasure.

  Malek awoke, heart beating fast. Someone was behind him, poking about in their bags. With one eye open, he could see his friends and their three hirelings, all sleeping peacefully. With everyone accounted for, it could only be a stranger rooting through their supplies. He braced himself, grasping the walking stick he’d leaned on all the way from Nowhere.

  Steady, steady, he told himself. Now!

  He rolled to his feet and swung the stout staff. A fleeting glimpse of the intruder’s silhouette was all Malek saw as the staff snagged on something, probably clothing, then continued on. He’d swung so hard and wildly he couldn’t stop, and the force of the blow spun him around. The shadowy figure was small, close to the floor. A man on his knees, maybe? It darted away, and Malek let out a yell.

  At once the stable loft exploded. Wilf and Nils jumped to their feet, totally confused. Caeta sat up and shouted, “What? What?” Hume reacted according to his training, reaching for his sword.

  Raika rolled over and grunted, “Kill the rat, and go back to sleep!”

  “It’s not a rat! It’s a thief!” Malek replied. Khorr slept on, softly snoring.

  The fleeing intruder made for the ladder, but Hume reached it first. Blade bare, he shouted in a commanding voice, “Stand where you are! You can’t get away!”

  The shadow flitted away from him and toward Wilf. The young farmer dived for the thief’s legs. His arms
closed on air, and he slid six feet in the straw, piling a wave of loose fodder around his head. Nils grabbed a hayfork and charged at the elusive intruder. He missed too, the wooden tines banging hard against the wall.

  “Damn the noise!” Raika said irritably, sitting up. “Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?”

  “Grab him!” Malek cried.

  The small gray figure ran right at her. Raika’s hands moved like serpents striking, but she felt her fingers brush through hair and cloth, then the thief was past her. Surprised, she crouched and sprang. Malek clearly saw her outstretched arms gather in the diminutive visitor. She hit the floor and rolled into a ball, punching hard at the captive in her arms.

  “Wake me up, will you? Middle of the filthy night! Here’s another!” she said through gritted teeth.

  In the meantime, Khorr had stirred. He scrubbed his wide bovine nose and propped himself up on one elbow. “What have you got there, lady?” he said sleepily.

  “A dirty little thief!”

  “Made of straw?”

  Raika stopped punching. She thrust the object of her anger away. It was a small sheaf of hay, tied up in a bundle.

  “What’s this? Sorcery?” she exclaimed.

  Caeta had lit a candle. Raising it high, she saw something in the rafters shrink from the feeble circle of light thrown off by the flame.

  “He’s here,” she said, pointing.

  They gathered below. When Caeta gave the candle to Khorr, the tallest one present, they saw a pale, pointed face in the shadows. The thief clung to the beam, out of reach.

  “It’s a kender!”

  “Should’ve known,” Raika said.

  “Come down!” Caeta said sternly. “Come down, and no one will hurt you.”

  “If I stay up here, no one will hurt me either.”

  Malek peered at the skulking thief. “Hey, you’re the same kender we saw the other day in the Thirsty Beggar!”

  “You’re mistaken. I’ve never been in the Thrifty Beggar—”

  “Thirsty,” Raika corrected him. “I saw you too.” She folded her arms, glaring. “Are you following me?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Nils checked through their belongings. Nothing was missing.